Tarte
by varietyofwords
Summary: Chuck and Blair. Oneshot. Post-finale. Thanksgiving with the Waldorf-Rose van der Bass Humphrey family in the year of the fast-forward because they have much to be thankful for. "We're not cancelling. Daddy flew all the way from France to make his pie with his daughter and his grandson. I'm not cancelling on him."


**Author's Note:** My (belated) celebration of Blair's favorite holiday set post-finale in the year of the five year fast-forward. I am very thankful for all of you who read, review, and enjoy my GG stories. I hope you all had a happy thanksgiving, if you were celebrating, or just a lovely Thursday, if you weren't.

* * *

Fingers trace lazy patterns against her skin, and the goosebumps dotting her arm are chased away by the heat of a fever spreading with every stroke of his skin against hers. Arms encircle around her waist, and the bed dips as he rolls closer to her. Hot breath mingles with her own as he leans over to press his lips against hers, and the movement causes her stomach to roll and her eyes to fly open.

"Chuck," she groans unappreciatively as she rolls her head into the pillow, as she rolls her face away from any contact with his lips because his breath smells rancid.

Like altoids and mouthwash and peppermint candy canes; like her husband was replaced overnight with Mister Mint, the only occupant of the Peppermint Forest, which Henry tried to purchase last night in the Bass family version of Candy Land.

Her preference for good hygiene backfiring as her stomach revolts against the byproducts of freshened breath and carefully brushed teeth; his preference for waking up his wife with gentle, lazy kisses backfiring as she pushes his face away from hers causing him to fall backwards onto his pillow. And all protests on either side of the bed, on either side of the issue are silenced as the door to their bedroom flies open and a flurry of little limbs scampers into their bed.

The mattress dips and bounces as their little boy jumps up and down; his excitement peaking as he exclaims how fun the parade with Uncle Nate, Aunt Serena, and Humphrey was and how he saw Spider-Man and Snoopy and half a dozen other cartoon characters. The mattress lurches and stills as their little boy is pulled down to sit in the middle between them; his excitement disappearing behind a proud smirk as he holds out his hand and explains how he used one of his mother's bobbie pins to pick open the lock.

"Look how smart you are, Henry."

"Chuck," she groans unappreciatively as she clutches onto the side of the mattress and tries to will her stomach to settle. Her husband clears his throat, drops his voice as he reminds Henry that he is supposed to knock and wait for either Mommy or Daddy to let him in.

"But you've been asleep forever," Henry retorts with a dramatic huff before straddling his legs on either side of his father's chest, pressing his hands against Chuck's cheeks, and holding his face still as his voice dips low and serious. "Don't you love eating Grandpa's pie?"

"Not as much I love eating Mommy's."

A hand flies across the bed to smack against his arm in a well-rehearsed gesture landing with maximum impact and zero blowback onto their son as the little boy watches their playful banter with wide-eyes because the number one rule in Miss Shelby's classroom is no hitting. A fact he reminds his parents of with stern looks that quickly melt away as Chuck pulls him down to the mattress and tickles him ruthlessly. His squirming body and flailing limbs sends the mattress bouncing and swaying, sends his mother lurching to her feet in search of the bathroom so quickly that Chuck freezes mid-tickle at the sight of her hastily retreating form.

"Henry, go get Dorota and have her bring Mommy some crackers, okay?"

The little boy hesitates as his eyes fill with worry and agrees only after his father assures him that everything is okay and this is what big boys do to help out, after his mother calls out from the bathroom for him to have Dorota bring Daddy horseradish or scotch or something equally as strong to cover up the stretch of his breath. And Henry is barely out of the room before Chuck turns on his heels and strides into the bathroom where his father finds his mother in a sight that causes his own stomach to roll and twist into knots because he hates seeing her like this.

Fingers trail against her skin, and the hair hanging loosing around her face is pulled back and held in his large hand. Arms encircle around her waist, and the hands that carry her through good and bad help to steady her at the sink as she washes away all traces of the past few minutes. Hot breath no longer mingles with hers as he holds his breath so that the rancid smell that triggers such a reaction is kept from assaulting her sensitive senses.

"We're not cancelling," she replies because she can read the question written onto his face, written into the gaze that meets hers in the mirror as she washes her hands. "Daddy flew all the way from France to make his pie with his daughter and his grandson. I'm not cancelling on him."

The arms encircled around her waist release her at her demand and his fingers trail across her stomach as she steps out of his reach and pads towards her closet intent on seeing through with her plans for the day. The protests on his lips silenced by the spoon of horseradish thrust towards him by her maid with a glare that says he is not to cross her Miss Blair, especially not on today of all days.

* * *

The busy hum of the caterers at work preparing a feast worthy of association with a Waldorf soirée produces an elixir of smiles that causing those gathered in the living room to smile, to sip their drinks and bemoan how much longer they have to wait to partake in the source of the aroma. The turkey turning golden brown in the oven, the cranberries being smashed into sweet yet sticky perfection, and the stuffing becoming moist with every splash of Grand Marnier liqueur under the Bass family' head chef's watchful gaze simultaneously causes her guests' mouths to water and her stomach to clinch and roll in revolt.

But years of scheming, of being the queen that she is taught her how to smooth such unpleasantries behind a mask of indifference and move forward towards the outcome she desires. So, instead, she concentrates not on the lumpy mixture her father and son are currently creating but rather on making sure the sleeves of Henry's cashmere sweater remain rolled to his elbows where they will not fall into the mixture and dirty with his attempt at cooking.

"And now we add the eggs," her father instructs with a smile and eyes that dart up to meet hers. "Blair Bear, do you want to—"

She waves away his offer with a forced smile and words about how Henry should have the honors. And her father smiles because this was always one of her favorite parts and, as he tells the little boy with a grin, the little boy must be pretty special for Blair Bear to let him take her job. A fact that makes her little boy puff up his chest proudly as he takes the egg from his grandfather, as a larger hand is wrapped around his smaller one to help him crack the egg on the side of the bowl.

The sight of the clear mixture with a bright yellow center sliding from its cracked container into the metal bowl causes her to twist away, to press her hand against the apron covering the front of her dress and will herself not to vomit. Her demand for herself not the be sick repeated over and over again in her head as her little boy eagerly begins to bang his stick inside the bowl in an attempt at stirring, as her father pops open the lid of the jar of cinnamon and holds it out to daughter and grandson.

"Just a pinch, Henry," he instructs with a laugh as the little boy grabs a handful and prepares to throw it into the bowl.

The little boy watches silently as his mother shows him just how much to pick up between his forefinger and thumb. The little boy smiles at the sound of his mother's laughter when she drops the small amount of cinnamon into the bowl and smiles with Harold's words about how when she was Henry's age, they had a pumpkin pie that was more cinnamon than pumpkin.

The little boy watches silently as the gooey, orange mixture is poured into the pie tie. The little boy chatters happily as he inquires about how long they have to wait to eat the pie, as he explains to his grandpa that his daddy is probably going to be impatient because his daddy loves eating his mother's pie. Words that allow his mother to pretend the dishtowel being held to in front of her face to stop the assault of the smells on her senses is actually meant to hide her laughter, to hide her smile as she offers her horrified father a look flooded with innocence.

* * *

The barely touched food – mangled and torn into pieces from being pushed around her plate so vigorously – has attracted the attention of her mother and her best friend. Two of the most important women in her life sharing looks at her plate and then at each other as worry intrudes on all that they have to be thankful for this year. Worry that mounts and grows when the appearance of Henry proudly carrying the pie he made with his mother and grandfather fails to gather as much enthusiasm as either Serena or Eleanor would have expected.

And they watch her like hawks as a slice of her favorite dessert is placed in front of her, as her virulent praise for how wonderful of a job Henry did serves as the mask for the disgust evident only to those who know her best spreading across her face with a single bite. Disgust neither of them can replicate when they take their own bites of pie with slight hesitation least this be a repeat of the cinnamon pie incident of nineteen ninety-five.

But realization dawns – the blonde beating the older brunette by a millisecond – as Blair forces herself to take another bite of pie with a hand that falls to presses against her stomach. Presses against the dress she selected for herself over the formfitting attire Eleanor suggested she wear for the party today.

"Oh my god, you're pregnant!"

The blonde's announcement causes forks to clatter against plates or freeze mid-air, mid-bite. The announcement causes the brunette's eyes to widen as she races to think of a way to sidestep being forced to confirm before she is ready or deny what is blatantly untrue. But the blonde is impatient and eager for an answering bypassing her best friend in favor of her brother who has spent all afternoon with breath that smells like horseradish and is currently smirking proudly behind the glass of scotch raised to his lips. A dead giveaway that causes those gathered around the table to offer up their congratulations, to ask Henry how he feels about being a big brother, and to inquire over how soon they can expect to meet the newest Bass.

The closer than expected date causes those gathered to quiet for a moment, and the blonde reaches her arm across the table to offer up support to her best friend because she knows why Chuck and Blair waited so long to announce about Henry's impending arrival. But her support is waved away with a snappy retort about how all this secrecy is Serena's fault.

"What?"

"I was trying to be the better person and let your wedding day be about you. I wasn't going to announce until after you got back from your honeymoon because I wanted to tell my best friend first. I never dreamed you and Humphrey would be gone until Thanksgiving."

"You and Chuck were gone for over a month and a half," Serena retorts.

"Yes, but this is Humphrey," Blair adds with a smile that tells her best friend that she is only joking, that she is only trying to deflect because she loathes people releasing information before she is ready. "I'm really happy for you. I'm going to go vomit now."

Her hasty departure causes her mother and best friend to stand in preparation to follow her, but her husband intercedes instructing them to stay and enjoy a slice of his second favorite pie quickly so they can toss out the triggers for her morning sickness and allow her to enjoy her favorite holiday in peace. A reminder that causes all of them to eagerly tuck into their food because none of them are new around here and they all know bossy Blair will return now that the announcement has been made; a reminder that causes her father to smile at her mother from the other end of his table as he passes the barely touched pie to his partner for another loop around the table.

"Eleanor, do you remember how I made pumpkin pie for one of your parties when you were pregnant with Blair and how sick the smell alone made you? It seems that Blair is the same way this time around, although I know our son-in-law called me several times when Blair was pregnant with Henry for this exact recipe."

The suggestion settles silently over the table for just a moment before it sends the voices of the Waldorf-Rose van der Bass Humphrey family rising in excitement in a discussion about the possibility of this event occurring next year with a new boss, a new little Bass with headbands dictating the seating chat, activities for the day, and the events of their lives seated at the head of the table.

"Either way," Cyrus interjects ready to give another one of his speeches with his glass raised high in the air, "we have so much to be thankful for this year – Dan and Serena's beautiful wedding, the buzz surrounding Nate's mayoral campaign, the coming together of our family, my son-in-law and daughter who celebrate five years of marriage next month, our wonderful grandson Henry, and this new addition to our family. Happy Thanksgiving."

"Happy Thanksgiving," those gathered around the table reply far too busy clinking their glasses to notice the couple standing together just outside the perimeter of the dining room.

Too busy to notice his fingers trailing across her stomach and flexing against her back as his arms encircle around her waist and hers encircle around his neck. Too busy counting all that they have to be thankful for to notice how their hot breath mingles with each lazy and soft, gentle and sweet kiss she presses against his lips because he has finally stopped smelling like altoids and peppermint and instead smells like that wonderful mix of scotch and natural musk she loves more than pumpkin pie.


End file.
